


Alleys Are the New Closets

by missmichellebelle



Series: Grumpy Barista [5]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Coffee Shops, Confrontations, Denial of Feelings, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-14
Updated: 2014-10-14
Packaged: 2018-02-21 03:09:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2452541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missmichellebelle/pseuds/missmichellebelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mickey knows that it’s that smile, the one that seems to know all of his secrets like they’re printed in neat, black ink all over Mickey’s skin, that makes him feel nervous.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Alleys Are the New Closets

It seems like Ian waits just long enough to reappear that Mickey sort of gives up on the idea that he’s ever going to. He’s a Milkovich, and hope isn’t exactly something that they _do_. Mickey’s not even sure if he’s physically or emotionally capable of the sensation. But he does know how to give up, to give in, to resign to the cold, hard facts.

Mickey’s not sure what was going on between him and Ian—it’s not like he considered the redhead a friend or some shit—but it’s apparently over, and now Mickey can go about his job without an annoying little shit making him put everything on pause just to have a latte.

It’s fucked up how much he finds himself missing it, though, and Mickey tells himself that he just misses the actual act of making a drink and actually touching the equipment he was trained to use. Because if it’s anything else, he’ll hate himself for it.

It’s a Thursday night, and Mickey is ready to go home. He locks up the backdoor from the inside, sets the stupid alarm (as if anyone would actually fucking rob a coffee shop), and then goes on his way. Or means to, at least, except that he’s fucking ambushed at the mouth of the alley.

There are things that scare Mickey, but having someone appear out of the shadows so far away from home is not one of them. Mickey’s instincts kick in, and the next thing he knows, he has Ian pressed up against a wall, arm against his throat.

Mickey recognizes Ian almost instantly, but it takes a few moments for him to realize what he’s doing, and, when he does, he backs away quickly, like merely touching Ian burns his skin. He crosses his arms and looks away, considers just leaving, except that the shock at seeing Ian has his legs locked up on him.

“I guess I deserve that for coming at you unexpectedly,” Ian mumbles, and Mickey’s eyes flick over as Ian rubs his neck. He chews his lip and almost feels bad for doing it, except _yeah_ , Ian had fucking popped out of the shadows. What the fuck did he think was going to happen? “So your knuckles aren’t just for show, huh?” Ian jokes, and he sounds fucking lame and awkward and Mickey really wants to be anywhere else but here.

“The fuck are you doing here?” He finally asks, still not looking at Ian. Mickey doesn’t do small talk. He doesn’t do all this pussy-footing around that Ian is apparently doing, and he just wants the ginger to spit whatever the fuck he has to say out so he can leave.

So he can get away.

Mickey would sooner bite out his own tongue, but being around Ian makes him feel something that might be nervous. If Mickey ever felt nervous—which he fucking _doesn’t_.

“I figured the sooner we got this out of the way, the better,” Ian hedges, and Mickey snorts.

“A month fucking soon to you?” _Shit_. Mickey regrets it the second he says it. It’s not like he has the day circled on a calendar or some shit, Mickey’s just… Good with numbers and dates.

For a second, Ian looks surprised, and then his eyes narrow, like Mickey is some sort of mathematical equation that he can’t figure out. _Good fucking luck, buddy_ , Mickey thinks with a scowl.

“Guess not,” Ian comments thoughtfully, head tilted to the side as he continues to scrutinize Mickey—the look makes his skin crawl, makes him fidget where he’s standing.

Ian doesn’t say anything, and like hell Mickey has anything to say. The need to curb stomp Ian had abated over time, and now being near him just makes Mickey… Uncomfortable. That whole latte thing that had transpired between them feels like it was much longer than a month ago, and Mickey had sort of pushed it out of his mind and not thought about it.

Looking at Ian now, it’s hard not to remember.

“All right, well, I’m going to fucking go, so.” Mickey makes a gesture with his thumb, and then turns to walk away—if Ian isn’t going to say anything, Mickey has no reason to stay. Fuck, even if Ian does plan on saying something, Mickey can still walk away. It’s not like he owes Ian any of his goddamn time.

“You’re not going to kick my ass?”

That draws Mickey up short, foot halfway off the pavement so that when he’s turning back to face Ian, he’s spinning on the ball of his foot.

“What?”

Ian almost looks frustrated, pushes off the wall he’s still pressed against and shrugs his shoulders.

“I hit on you,” Ian says bluntly, and Mickey looks away and bites down on his lip—it’s not like he’d thought that much different, but it’s one thing to vaguely think it and another for Ian to confirm it. They had sounded like come-ons, and now Ian is telling him that they were. “Then you locked up and I realized I’d made a mistake and was probably about to get the shit kicked out of me—that’s why I bolted.” Ian shrugs again. “Why I waited so long to come back. Finally convinced myself that I deserved it, I guess.”

“You don’t—“ Mickey huffs out a frustrated breath, and then his eyes flick to Ian, who seems surprised at the interjection. “Look, I’m not going to fucking beat you, all right?” He doesn’t tell Ian that he was right to bolt, that first night—that Mickey’s not sure what he would have done. He could have done nothing, or he could have slammed Ian’s face into the counter. Or he could have pressed Ian against it and seen just how much he liked having dick in his mouth. Mickey swallows, glances quickly at Ian again. He can’t deny that each scenario was equally possible.

“You’re not?” Ian’s eyebrows draw together, like this was the last fucking thing he expected, and it makes something sharp twist in Mickey’s gut. He’s spent his life building a reputation, one that would intimidate people and make them fear him. And here it is, in all it’s marvelous, fucked up glory.

“No, I’m not, so you can fucking… Come and get lattes and be an annoying little shit again, or whatever. I don’t fucking care.” It’s the closest thing he can say to, _You don’t have to be afraid. You can come back. I want you to_. Because he could never say those things. His mouth doesn’t even know how to form words like that.

But Ian smiles, slow and assured, like he knows what Mickey means anyway.

And Mickey knows that it’s that smile, the one that seems to know all of his secrets like they’re printed in neat, black ink all over Mickey’s skin, that makes him feel nervous. His fingers itch for a cigarette.

“So it doesn’t bother you?”

“What? That you won’t let me fucking go home?” Mickey drawls, and Ian’s grin grows wider.

“That I’m gay.”

The sentence sends a spike of fear up Mickey’s spine—fuck, even the word is enough to do that. Mickey is throwing glances around before he realizes he’s doing it, checking the streets for people. For real monsters hidden in the shadows, waiting to grab their ankles and pull them into hell. Standing there on the sidewalk, on the street, makes Mickey feel too open, too vulnerable, and he’s pushing Ian back into the alley before he realizes that he’s doing it. One entrance, one exit, and just the presence of the walls looming on three sides of him makes him feel better.

He has Ian pressed to a wall again, hand flat against his chest, and he’s too close and his voice is too low when he says, “No, it doesn’t fucking bother me.”

It doesn’t bother him—it _terrifies_ him. Like Ian is the living embodiment of the secret locked up deep in Mickey’s chest, buried so deep that it’s easy to ignore most of the time. Standing less than a foot away from Ian in a fucking one-lamp lit alley and everything is at the forefront, like Ian has the secret cupped in his hands and is about to release it.

Ian doesn’t say anything, but Mickey sees the way his eyes flick down to Mickey’s mouth.

“Don’t even fucking think about it,” Mickey sneers, and wonders where Ian’s fear went. Wonders if it disappeared when he gave into the idea that Mickey was going to fuck him up as his knuckles advertise, wonders if even the possibility of fear dried up when Mickey didn’t follow through. Because Mickey moves way, _needs_ to get away and out of this alley and away from Ian, but Ian just moves with him, crowds Mickey against the opposite wall of the alley and then pins him to it with his mouth.

And Mickey thinks, _Push him the fuck off_ , even as he grips Ian’s biceps. _Punch him in the fucking stomach_ , he tells himself, even as he closes his eyes and surges up into the hot, persistent press of Ian’s mouth against his own. Because Mickey doesn’t fucking do this—hook-ups in an alley after a night of drinking are one thing, but he’s stone-cold sober and this is _kissing_.

Mickey _doesn’t fucking do this_.

But he’s not exactly stopping it either.

“Guess I didn’t guess wrong after all,” Ian breathes into his ear teasingly, and his voice dips slightly deeper, and his hips are pinned against Mickey’s, and it’s cold as fuck but that’s not why a shudder ripples through his body. And this is his chance—this is when he pushes Ian off of him, when he tells him to go fuck himself, when he tells him that if he values his life he’ll never show his face in front of Mickey again. That’s all he’s gotta fucking do.

He fists his hand in the back of Ian’s hair and growls, “Shut the fuck up,” and then forces their mouths back together.

Mickey really should have punched Ian to begin with. Maybe then things wouldn’t have gotten so fucking complicated.

**Author's Note:**

> [Read, Reblog, & Like on Tumblr](http://missmichellebelle.tumblr.com/post/99962040285/alleys-are-the-new-closets)


End file.
